


knight takes rook

by VesperNexus



Series: that boy is mine [7]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A bit of humour, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: “I’m going towreckyou my boy.” Washington drinks his wanton moans and the deliriously pleasured rut of their bodies together.Or, in which Martha has terribly inconvenient timing, and promises are made.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: that boy is mine [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677175
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	knight takes rook

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I really should sleep i'm sorry but

Hamilton’s hand is loosely fisted beneath his chin, sharp elbow slanted against the table. Thin delicate fingers curl around the artfully carved wooden knight and slide him across the board. Washington cleanly sweeps it away with his bishop.

“I was wondering when you would finally stop _parrying_ ,” his boy smiles impishly over their game, a subtle twinkle blossoming behind his eyes. Washington huffs an exaggerated breath. 

“I apologise for not striking in the offensive before I gathered my bearings.” Hamilton moves another knight with a roll of his eyes. 

“You’re just mad you’ve not won yet, Sir.”

“This is only our second game my dear boy.”

“And yet my comment still stands.”

Washington lets a smile split his face, feeling foreign and welcome all the same. Their room is cast in a gentle blanket of flickering gold and auburn as candlelight fills all the sharp nooks with light. He tries futilely to refocus on the game, toying absentmindedly with the rook. They have fallen back on old comfortable habits so genuinely the ugly gloom that had sprouted like weeds was quickly plucked before doubt and loathing could cultivate it. So Washington takes a moment, because he _can._

Hamilton’s shoulders are stooped low, unburdened with the tension that too often holds his nerves captive. His hair cascades freely around his face, curling gently into jaw. Velvety skin is coloured in a soothing kaleidoscope of candlelit hues, shadows fractured across the gentle slop of his nose into the dip of his dark eyes. Inviting and striking all the same. Lashes flutter absentmindedly as he worries his lower lip plump, tongue darting from between his teeth teasingly. His portrait is impossible in its loveliness.

“I fear we’re not going to get very far if you don’t move that rook, Sir.” The mischief twisted playfully around his words sets ablaze something hot and comforting in Washington’s chest. Everything feels an eternity away. He sets down the little wooden pawn and turns his palm upwards over the table, beckoning his boy silently. 

Hamilton stands easily and without question, walking carefully around the desk. Those delightful fingers weave themselves through Washington’s, until their hands are knotted together in a comforting grip. From here they are guided by the practical hand of familiarity. Washington slips an arm around his boy’s hips until he sits astride his lap, thighs warm and strong as they bracket his legs. 

Hamilton leans down into the quiet kiss, pliant and soft above him. Washington licks into his lips as they part obediently, slips his tongue along the roof of his boy’s mouth to coax delighted sounds from his throat. Hamilton’s other hand sits carefully atop a broad shoulder, blunt nails digging into the fabric of Washington’s uniform. Oh, he has missed this so. He kisses his boy breathless, pulls huffs of laughter from the delicate body until their foreheads are pressed together.

A serene quiet settles, a warm blanket ushered carefully over their entwined bodies. Washington takes to tracing a trial down the elegant lines of Hamilton’s neck with butterfly kisses, tongue lapping over the pulsing veins. He gnaws at the protruding edge of Hamilton’s collarbone, sucking a bruise onto the sweet skin.

“Mmm, _George…_ ” his boy leans back, dipping for a quick kiss before slipping off the chair. Washington ignores his instinct to draw the boy back onto his lap and _mark_ him, wills himself to twist his hands around the arms of chair instead. With a strength only granted by Providence himself, Washington stills his body as his boy unties his own breeches. The fabric slips down his hips to pool around his ankles before he steps out of them. And oh, he will never tire of this sight. 

Washington is only so strong a man.

He slips from the chair with the grace and promise of a feral feline, pushing his boy back by the hips. Hamilton’s hands flatten atop the desk, carelessly swiping their game of chess into disorder. Washington dips his head and buries himself between his boy’s thighs, slips the undergarment free and nips at the delightful warmth of sweetened flesh that belongs only to him.

“ _Sir, sir…_ ” He bites and kisses secrets into the quivering flesh, mapping an endless array of constellations to the melody of Hamilton’s stuttering encouragement. It drips from his kiss reddened lips like syrup, saccharine, sinful, _his and only his._ Washington wants to take all the time Providence owes him, wants to spend the rest of his years buried between Hamilton’s thighs, licking his boy into a paradise more honeyed than heaven itself.

But his boy, his impossible, impossible boy is impatient. He props himself up in a quick, practiced movement, legs widening infeasibly to fit his general between them. Washington lowers him down until his back is flat and straight, until his abdomen is clenching and unclenching in anticipation and gooseflesh has slivered up his arms. Washington presses a hundred feathery kisses down the flight of ribs, right to the dip of a belly stuttering with uneven eager breaths. 

His own breeches have been long since lost. Washington draws his boy to the edge of the desk, slipping one large hand against the small of Hamilton’s back until it is arched. The boy presses against him and Washington plunders his mouth with his tongue, dominating, dictating until Hamilton is helpless and whimpering, robbed of all volition and reason, left only to wrap his thin arms around his general.

The flip is as quick and bright as a crack of thunder through dawn clouds. It's been an age since he's had his boy. Washington’s grip becomes a vice, hard and possessive and inescapable.

“ _God Sir,_ please…” 

“I’m going to _wreck_ you my boy.” Washington drinks his wanton moans and the deliriously pleasured rut of their bodies together, and that’s when the door slips open. 

He startles violently, dropping Hamilton. His boy falls hard against the desk, smacking his head into the wood audibly. 

“Oh _fuck-”_

Martha stands in the doorway, faced twisted in exasperation. 

*

Once Washington and Hamilton are decent, they sit around the desk and look appropriately chastised.

“Of all the reckless, stupid things George…”

“No one was supposed to have that key.” He tries uselessly. There’s no stopping the woman when she’s like this, hands pressed hard into her hips and eyes narrowed dangerously. Washington irrationally wonders if she’s hidden a cane somewhere in her skirts.

Still, bickering with Martha feels lying satisfied beneath fresh cold linens on a warm summer night. 

“And, _you_ Colonel, I expected you to have more sense than-”

Hamilton does not look up. His eyes are glassy, fixed pointedly on some invisible crack between the floorboards. Washington never thought it possible for anyone to turn that colour. 

*

“She knows about us.”

It’s not really a question. Washington answers regardless. “Yes.”

“You never told me she knows about us.” He yearns to quash the spike of betrayal propping up Hamilton’s words. His boy has diverted his gaze somewhere far over Washington’s shoulder. Washington thinks he might be looking out the window. The sky is blue and full of stars tonight. 

“I..” Washington waits until Hamilton is seated beside him on the bed. Martha has since retired, but the uneasy implications of her presence have already rooted themselves without reprieve. Hamilton twists his fingers around his wrists, fidgeting with an uncomfortable energy. “I’m sorry, Son, it slipped my mind.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but it’s all he has. The worst lie awkwardly in the gap stretching endlessly between them, and suddenly they are separated by something more tremendous than a foot of linen. 

“Slipped your mind…” Something ugly prods Washington’s insides, a terrible foreign feeling. Hamilton’s speaking so quietly he might as well have yelled. Washington wishes he were yelling. This quiet subdued boy is as unfamiliar as he is unsettling, shedding a sharp confronting light on Washington’s failings. “Like it slipped your mind to tell me she was here?”

“I was getting to it – I-”

“When were you going to get to it, General? When we break bread with her on the morrow?” The words are sharp and deserved, pulled taut with a string of quiet indignation. 

“I’m sorry Alexander. I didn’t think.”

His boy finally turns to him, and his eyes are soulful as ever. “Does this change anything?”

Washington slips his arm around Hamilton’s waist. The boy is pliant, boneless as he’s manoeuvred gently into him. “No,” Washington promises into his skin, “it doesn’t change anything.”

His vow dissolves the residue tension stringing Hamilton’s body taut. He is lax, head slipping along Washington’s collarbone. “And after?”

Once Hamilton’s back is secured against his chest, Washington weaves his arms around to rest on his boy’s stomach. “After?”

“After the war.”

He glides a broad palm under Hamilton’s shirt, resting it precisely over the uncertain thrum of his heart. “If you’ll have me, my dear boy, it doesn’t change anything.” He feels doubt throbbing through that delicate body, painfully palpable in Hamilton’s unnatural stillness. “You want to practice law, don’t you?”

His boy finally looks up at him. His eyes wide and vulnerable. “Sir…”

“Did you have somewhere in mind?” Washington smiles like it’s a secret. 

“New York,” the response is breathless and aware. Hamilton is twisting his arms until they are face to face. “I want to practice law in New York.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

The absolute unbridled joy that lights up Hamilton’s face is not something he’s likely to ever forget. In that moment, in the secure circle of his general’s arms, Hamilton’s delight is perhaps purest and most vivid expression of everything that is good in the whole damned war. Washington holds his treasure tight, galvanised and for the first time since he set foot on camp, _certain._

Hamilton kisses him hard and laughs into his mouth, beautiful and untamed and absolutely saccharine, and Washington counts his blessings until he _can’t_.


End file.
